


Pieces of Fate

by mille_libri



Series: Fate [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 09:47:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5243765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mille_libri/pseuds/mille_libri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glimpses into the lives of Thora and Alistair from Blight through Calling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rain

It was raining so hard outside Thora couldn’t even hear the drops pattering against the pane; it was just sheets of water flowing down the glass. Weariness pinched the muscles between her shoulder blades, and she put down the quill with a sigh, walking inevitably to the window. Spreading her hand on the glass, she wished she knew why rainy nights like this always made her long for what she couldn’t have. She closed her eyes, pretending that the glass was warm skin beneath her fingers.

Alistair stretched his legs out closer to the fire, the wineglass dangling in his fingers, listening to the rush of the rain on the windows. He stared into the flames, taking a sip from the glass. The quiet of his study, the restful break from the constant needs of his kingdom, washed over him. The only thing that could make this hour of peace better would be her presence behind him, strong small fingers finding the knots of muscles and kneading the tension out of him, creating a different sort of tension in its wake.

The same memory stretched unseen across the miles between them, the warmth of the little bedroom deep in Orzammar, the narrow dwarf-sized bed that had been more than enough for them both when all they had was each other. Alistair could nearly feel the silky strands of her hair between his fingers; Thora remembered the rumble of his chest as she lay on it, listening to his laughter.

She turned as the door opened, startled from her reverie, and smiled at the little figure in the doorway, holding out her arms for Anawyn, the little girl certain to wake during any rainstorm, lifting her girl in her ams.

Alistair called “Enter” carelessly in response to the knock on his door, and rose to take the small, sweet-smelling bundle of baby from the nursemaid’s arms. He looked down into Duncan’s little face, his heart warming with the contact.


	2. Thora's Fantasy

_A moment that never happened ..._

“Have you seen Alistair?” Thora asked Oghren.

“Nope … *hic* … hav’n’t seen the blighter.” He stopped, scratching his behind thoughtfully. “Mighta seen ‘im go toward the … place … with the … eatin’.” He belched hugely, took a swig of ale, and kept moving.

She hurried toward the dining room, hoping she had interpreted the Oghren-speak correctly. As she got closer, she could feel the tug of the shared taint in their blood. He was there. Her heart raced with an excitement she no longer had the right to feel.

It was pitch dark in the room. Thora, her eyes accustomed to the dark by long years underground, could see Alistair slumped over the head of the table, a bottle and goblet in front of him.

“What do you want?”

“I …” What had she wanted? She’d needed to see him, be near him, while she still could, but how could she say that?

“Go away.”

“Are you all right?” Thora moved toward him down the table.

“Yes, I’m perfectly all right.” He lifted his head, his eyes glittering in the dark. “I was happily drinking myself into a stupor to celebrate just how ‘all right’ I am.” The sarcasm stung. “Alistair …”

“Don’t. Please. Can’t you just go? You’re leaving me anyway, why not do it now?”

She reached out, finding his hand and taking it in hers, the familiar strength of it comforting her.

He growled, pulling her toward him, holding her there, so close she could feel his breath on her lips. “Let go of me, or I can’t be responsible for what happens.”

This was a bad idea. She should pull her hand out of his warm grasp and run from the room, but she stood still, holding her breath.

Alistair’s mouth came down on hers, his tongue opening her lips. She welcomed it with hers, the familiar taste of him flooding her brain. They kissed desperately, each of them all too aware that it was probably the last time. Alistair’s hands clamped on her hips, pulling her closer to the chair, his fingers sliding beneath her waistband and into her smalls, finding her already wet and eager.

He lifted her into his lap, pushing roughly at her pants until they were down around her thighs. Thora’s fingers worked at the laces of his trousers, exposing him to her hungry hands, stroking and caressing until he whispered an oath, positioning her over him and pressing her down.

It was the last time, the last time, repeated Thora’s head as she moved on him, as his heat enveloped her, the sounds of his groans ringing in her ears.

“Maker!” He pushed up into her, shuddering, and Thora cried out at the sweetness of it, tears stinging her eyes.

They rested together, panting, for only a brief moment before Thora was reminded of the telltale bulge at her middle by the soft movement of their child inside her. She pushed herself off him, hastily rearranging her clothes as she ran from the room.


	3. Alistair's Fantasy

_The Archdemon’s cries taunted him. It was getting farther and farther away as he chased it, knowing that once it was gone he would have lost … something. Something vitally important. Somehow not knowing what it was tormented him as badly as losing it. Alistair could feel the burning of his lungs and the slowing of his movement as the Archdemon disappeared into the distance._

He sat up in bed, his heart pounding. The dreams weren’t as bad as they used to be, but now there was no counteraction for them, either. The bed he slept in was empty, the fire in his room down to embers that gave no warmth at all.

If he had his way, there would be someone kneeling next to the fire, poking and stirring it until it crackled to life, warming and lighting the room. She would sit back on her haunches and turn to smile at him, teasing him about letting a little thing like an Archdemon get to him. Her hair would gleam in the firelight, as red as the glowing coals. She would rise to her feet, suddenly naked, and walk across the room to the bed, her hair caressing her body as she moved, like a living curtain of flame.

He would reach out from the bed, lifting her up until her small body curled in his lap, her warmth filling him and chasing away the last vestiges of the dream. Then she would rise to her knees and kiss him, and there would be nothing left in the world but the two of them, the taste and scent of her all around him. His hands would weave through the silk of her hair, finding her soft skin underneath and caressing until she gasped with her pleasure, leaning back with her eyes half-closed and her lower lip caught between her teeth. Soon she would be moving atop him, her breasts sliding against his chest, their tips hard and begging for his mouth.

Her body would tighten around him as she reached her climax, and he would follow, the blissful release spreading through him and easing all the tension in him. They would kiss and touch, slipping under the covers together, telling sleepy jokes until they fell asleep in each other’s arms, all nightmares dispelled.

A log shifted in the fire, and Alistair jumped at the sound. His hand was still on himself, sticky with spilled seed, and his cheeks were wet with tears. He reached for a towel to clean himself off and then curled up on his side, staring into the darkness. The nightmares weren’t half as bad as the aftermath.


	4. Calling

Thora woke with a sudden gasp, and lay quietly for a moment taking stock. No new tug inside, no song, no new patches of taint itching on her skin. Another day.

Some mornings when she woke and realized it wasn't here yet she was elated; other mornings she felt a faint disappointment, a frustration with the waiting, with never knowing how much longer she had. She rolled carefully onto her side to avoid disturbing Alistair, and her eyes moved over his body, looking for taint that hadn't been there yesterday. Her relief at seeing nothing was unmitigated—her own Calling was a maddeningly vague cloud in her future, but his was a threatening storm cloud, waiting to break over her in all its anguish. Why that should be, she wasn't sure. They had agreed long ago that one Calling was both, they wouldn't be separated again until the final blow came, far into the Deep Roads. But still … she didn't want to see Alistair have to suffer.

He stirred, stretching slowly. And then he sat up, his eyes opening and blinking rapidly, staring into space in a panic. Thora watched, her heart in her throat, until his shoulders relaxed.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. Again. You?"

"Nothing."

"Well, that's a relief." He turned and grinned at her. "Another day for us, then. What should we do with it?"

"I have some ideas."

"Mm. I wonder if I can guess what they are." In what seemed a single swift movement, Alistair rolled over and pinned her beneath his body, his familiar warm mouth covering hers. When she was melting bonelessly into the mattress, he lifted his head, his face flushed as he looked down at her. "I will never get used to that, as long as I live, that you're here and mine and I can just reach for you that way. Every extra day with you is a miracle."

"Alistair."

"What?"

For answer, she tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled his mouth back down to hers, kissing him deeply.

Alistair pulled back so he could touch her body, cupping her still-firm breasts in his hands, unable to get enough of the way she looked as she bit her lip and threw her head back under his touch. Her red hair was shot through with grey now, and he could see lines in her face that hadn't been there before, but she was still as beautiful as the day he'd met her.

Her legs had parted beneath the covers. Alistair eased over onto his back, bringing her with him so she was straddling his stomach. His fingers stroked the backs of her thighs, his big hands cupping her rear as he gently but firmly pulled her into place. Thora wriggled against his length, her eyes closing with the heat of it. Alistair pressed up against her, feeling her small, calloused, capable hands close around his erection and position him. She sank down onto him, the familiar movements as intoxicating as they had always been. Maker, she was beautiful. He was, and always had been, a lucky man.

Gripping her hips, Alistair slowed her rhythm, wanting to make this last as long as he could. Every time might be the last morning they could wake up like this, the last time they could make love in their own bed, the last … The climax took him, stiffening his body as he thrust up into her, hearing her answering cries.

When it was done and their bodies had come apart, she lay across his chest, pressing her face against his shoulder. Alistair felt no particular need to move; there was certainly nowhere else he had to be.

Mindful of the Calling looming ahead of him, he had stepped down from the throne of Ferelden six years ago, abdicating in favor of his son Duncan. Alistair and Thora had been sure their Callings were just around the corner—it had, at that point, been thirty years since Alistair's Joining, and almost thirty since Thora's. But the days kept coming and going and there was no sign in either of them that the Calling was imminent. Anders had gone; Xandros and Nathaniel Howe and most of Thora's other recruits from those early years. But Thora herself remained untouched, as did Oghren and Sigrun. They speculated that the dwarves of Orzammar ingested miniscule amounts of taint on a regular basis, tracked in by those who went on expeditions into the Deep Roads, seeping in with the water, permeating the very Stone itself, and that kept the taint from moving as quickly within them. Alistair's delayed Calling seemed likely to have come from his mother, but despite Anawyn and Fiona having worked together on the topic at Weisshaupt for nearly ten years, no one was certain what course the taint took if you were born with it.

As so few Wardens produced children, Anawyn herself had been the best subject for study. Shortly after she'd undergone the official Joining at the age of eighteen, Anawyn had been called to Weisshaupt. Her letters were filled with news of her grandmother and of the work they were doing there. Alistair and Thora had held their breath as Anawyn's thirtieth birthday had come and gone, but she showed no sign of a Calling, either. Fiona had speculated Anawyn's Calling would come in thirty years after her Joining, but didn't really know. Fiona had retired to somewhere in Orlais four years ago, and Anawyn had been named First Warden shortly thereafter. Alistair and Thora had been there for the ceremony, filled with pride at the achievements of their daughter.

They'd had the chance to meet Anawyn's long-time lover, a Nevarran named Gretsch, and to be there for the birth of their granddaughter, Minna, and had come home confident that their daughter was happy and well-loved. Duncan had married shortly after acceding to the throne, choosing Fergus Cousland's youngest, Eleanor, as his bride. She was a good queen, balancing out Duncan's impulsiveness with a very thoughtful approach to governing. Together they were a formidable pair. Their marriage was proving a fruitful one—in five years Eleanor had borne two sons, Maric and Bryce, and was showing signs of a third child on the way.

Morrigan and Cybele had disappeared completely after accompanying Xandros to his Calling. Neither Anawyn nor Alistair had heard a word from Cybele since that day. Two powerful apostates melting away into the woods. Alistair would have been lying to say he wasn't nervous about it; he'd never trusted Morrigan, and despite her clear devotion to their daughter, he still thought there was a chance Morrigan had her own interests far more at heart than anyone else's. But there was little question that neither he nor Thora was able to go after her themselves. Age had slowed their reflexes, and the wear and tear of a fighting lifestyle had taken its toll on muscles and joints. They had few illusions about how long they would survive in the Deep Roads, and that length of time was growing shorter the longer their Calling was delayed.

The thought reminded him. "Sparring today?"

"Think you can take me, old man?"

"You're older than I am."

"Yes, and in far better shape."

"Oh, we'll just see about that." Alistair climbed out of bed, ignoring the way his knees popped. Thora didn't, however, and her laughter followed him as he began to get dressed. Outside the window, the sun was shining on another day he got to share with the love of his life. He thought back to that long-ago day at the tournament when Duncan had conscripted him and a door had opened in the unremitting gloom that was his life to that point. He'd had no idea what a world of richness was opening up for him. His life had had its sorrows, but so much of it had been filled with joy.

"Race you to the training ring." Her voice broke into his thoughts, and he smiled. Just this once, maybe he'd let her win.


	5. What About Love

The campfire crackled in front of her, the heat of it warming Thora clear through; but it was nothing compared to the heat emanating from Alistair's leg where it pressed against hers. She felt utterly ridiculous about this. They'd shared exactly one kiss, but ever since she'd been able to think of nothing but him. When he was near her, as he was now, he filled her every sense—she could practically taste his skin, or at least she imagined she could. Yet he seemed unaffected. He was joking with Leliana right now, casually eating his stew as though Thora wasn't slowly burning to death next to him.

She ate automatically from her own bowl, the food tasteless and gummy in her mouth. Alistair shifted next to her so that his thigh rubbed against hers, and she felt the movement deep in the pit of her stomach. If she hadn't known better, she'd have thought he was doing that on purpose. Foolish, she chided herself. She was the one who was supposed to be experienced here. Alistair had admitted that he'd never been with a woman, and the tentative awkwardness of his kiss had proved he wasn't lying. But oh, how warm he had made her, awkwardness included.

Leliana came around to collect the bowls, casting a knowing and curious glance at Thora as she did so, a glance that Thora refused to answer. Alistair didn't move, and Thora seemed incapable of tearing herself away from the heat of his body, her legs gone limp and boneless on her.

Wynne and Leliana both retired to their tents, and Thora managed to mutter good-nights to them both. Leliana disappeared with an arch, curious look; Wynne with a more concerned glance. Morrigan, of course, remained hunched over her precious grimoire at her own fire, oblivious to what went on at the main fire.

Once they were alone, Alistair sighed loudly. "I thought they'd never go to bed. Maybe now I can get up."

"Maybe—I'm sorry, don't let me keep you."

"What?" He glanced over, alarmed by her frosty tone. "No, no, not that at all! Quite the opposite, actually. I think standing up would be rather … embarrassing right now." He looked down at his lap, his cheeks flushed red.

"Oh!" Relief poured through her as she grasped his meaning. Maybe she wasn't the only one turned foolish and helpless by these feelings.

"You probably don't feel it," he said, "but sitting here next to you … all I can think of is what it might be like to … touch you." The last words were spoken in a gravelly whisper that made Thora want to slide off the log into a puddle, and to kiss him immediately.

She settled for the next best thing. Her heart pounding, she picked up his big hand and placed it on her thigh. "Please do."

"Really? You mean it?" He cast her an anxious look. "I was afraid, after you saw how bad I was at kissing …"

Of its own volition a smile spread across her face. "Practice makes perfect."

Alistair's hand closed on her thigh, the big fingers kneading the muscles there, and Thora caught her breath. "I might just take you up on that," he whispered. His free hand caught her chin, turning her face around to his, and Thora's eyes fluttered closed as his mouth moved closer to hers. Their lips met, and Thora let her head fall back, her mouth opening for him. Tentatively Alistair accepted the invitation for what it was, his tongue finding hers almost apologetically.

Thora threw her arms around his neck, nearly toppling both of them off the log in her fervor. She was rewarded by Alistair's sudden groan and by his arm sweeping around her waist, pulling her against him.

How long they kissed Thora didn't know, but at last they broke apart, both breathing heavily. Heat was pooling between her legs, and she wanted him. "Will you … will you come to my tent?"

"What, tonight?" There was blank panic in his eyes.

Thora drew away, miserably sure she had just committed some terrible mistake. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"No." He caught her hand, bringing her back against his side. "I want to. I wish I could. It's just … I've never done this before, and I never expected to be able to do it at all, what with the Templars and everything, and I—I want it to be special."

"Special?"

Alistair nodded. "I want it to—to mean something. Thora, I care about you, you know that, but I think I could … I think I could more than care, and I want to be sure." He looked at her closely. "Were you in love with your first?"

Startled, Thora frowned. She tried to remember her first. It had been one of a small group of nobles who had experimented together in their early teens, she knew that much, but which one, and when, and how, were lost in her memory, buried by more important things. She shook her head. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Sad, I would say," Alistair said. "Didn't you want to be in love first?"

"I never thought about it that way. It was just … part of my education, really. Truthfully, Alistair, I never expected to fall in love at all. As a princess, I'd have been expected to marry eventually, but my father would have chosen the man based on his caste and position. Emotions wouldn't have come into it. We'd have tried for children, but he'd also have had his noble-hunters, in an attempt to conceive boys to carry on the family name. I never …" She started to claim that she'd never thought of choosing a man for herself, but she couldn't say that. For a long time, she'd wished more than anything that Gorim had been a noble. Him, she'd thought even then she might have been able to love.

"I never expected to fall in love, either. Eamon made it rather clear that my particular branch of the Theirins was to end with me, and the Revered Mother made it even more clear that Templars never had carnal thoughts. But I dreamed … I always dreamed of a woman who would see me as more than my father's son, more than a Templar or a swordsman, one who could look at me and see all the things I'd always had to hide from everyone." He glanced shyly at her from under his eyelashes. "That sounds stupid, doesn't it?"

"No, Alistair, it doesn't sound stupid at all." Thora stood up, looking him in the eyes. "I think you must be the strongest person I've ever met, to withstand all of that with your dreams intact. If you want to wait, then that's what I want, too." She smiled at him, a smile that came straight from her heart, and they remained there, embracing each other with foolish smiles on their faces, until Wynne emerged from her tent and snappishly informed them that they were supposed to wake her up for her turn at watch an hour ago.


	6. The End

Alistair's eyes blinked once, then twice. He reached for Thora's shoulder, grasping it tightly. "Are you still there, love?"

"I'm here." Thora knelt next to him, her own eyes practically blinded by the tears welling up in them. This was it, then. After all the years together, this was going to be the end. Thora's left arm hung uselessly at her side, broken in three places, and blood ran down the side of her face from a scalp laceration. They had made it three days into the Deep Roads, taking out as many groups of darkspawn as they could, but at last they had been overwhelmed. A hurlock had landed a massive blow to Alistair's side before falling victim to Thora's sword, and Thora could sense more darkspawn closing in. They had a few minutes still, though, and she was going to spend as much of the life that was left in her looking at him as she could. "I won't leave you."

"Will I … see you … in the Fade?"

"I'll be there." She clutched his hand harder in her good one, pressing a kiss to his bloodied knuckles. "I promise." She had taken Dagna's potion faithfully all these years, accessing the Fade, and it had become easier over time. Now she needed only a small swallow to get there. Thora had a last bottle of the potion at her belt, ready to drink at the end, if there was time. Just in case. She wasn't entirely sure she believed in the Fade, or in the Stone, for that matter, but anything that gave her a better chance of spending eternity with Alistair was worth trying. "Just close your eyes. I'll be right behind you."

His eyes moved restlessly, seeing nothing. His lips formed words, but his beautiful voice was gone, and as Thora watched, the light died out of his eyes and his head lolled to the side. She bent over him, the tears now running down her face. She'd sworn to herself that she wouldn't let him see her cry. They had known this was coming, all along, and they had spent so much more time together than she had once expected. They'd seen their children grow up, they had grown old together. That was more than many people got, tainted or not, and more than any Warden had a right to expect. So why, now that the end had come, did it seem too soon?

Thora kissed his still-warm lips one last time, gently closing his eyes and laying him back on the ground. She took the potion from her belt, drinking it down. Her movements were faster now; she could feel the darkspawn closing in and knew she had very little time. In her mind's eye, she could still see the face of her first broodmother, who had once been a pretty dwarf named Laryn. That was not going to happen to her. Thora fumbled at her belt for the knife she carried, but it wasn't there. Somehow she had lost it. She searched in the darkness of the Deep Roads for Alistair's dropped sword, but couldn't find that near his body, and she didn't want to leave his side, irrational though that might be. She had sworn not to leave him—death didn't change that. Kneeling next to him, Thora gave herself up to despair and waited for the darkspawn.

Then a sharp pain arced through her body. With her good hand, she reached out for Alistair, blackness closing in on her. She could feel the wet trail the blood made down her back as it ran out of her body. In the air in front of her a glowing door appeared, and she focused on it, but not too hard. She knew this door—it was the way into the Fade. She'd been through it many times before. Slowly, letting her body relax, she drifted toward it, reaching gently out to push it open.  
\----- ----- ----- ----- -----  
The dwarf smiled, a warm smile that transformed her whole face, and then she fell forward across the body of the fallen warrior king. The white-haired mage who had delivered the final blow gently rearranged the pair so that they lay together, their weapons at hand. Fiona hoped with everything that was in her that her son and his wife had found each other in the beyond; she very much looked forward to meeting both of them. In this world, she had never felt comfortable doing so. Her mere existence threatened her son's throne, and after him, her grandson's. She had always felt it best that her contact with them be minimized.

The years she'd spent working with Anawyn were years she treasured. Her granddaughter was a spirited and intelligent young woman who clearly carried in her the best of both her parents, and of her people. The blood of all the races of Thedas ran in her veins, and in the veins of her child. Fiona was proud to have been involved in her heritage. She dearly wished she knew what had happened to her other granddaughter, young Cybele—something there felt as though it carried danger. But there was nothing Fiona could do. Long as she had lived, she knew she had come to the end now. Her power had carried her undetected into the Deep Roads when she felt in her bones that it was Alistair's time, and here she had waited to see that nothing went wrong in the end. She had watched as Alistair and his love battled at each other's side one last time, and as he died, and she had made sure the darkspawn couldn't touch the valiant woman her son had loved so.

Now, having seen them both as safely to the Maker as she knew how, Fiona turned to the oncoming darkspawn, her arms raised. The conflagration of fire she was calling down would take every ounce of power she possessed, but when it had passed, the darkspawn would be ended and she would be with the Maker, finally able to greet her son.

She was smiling as the fire consumed her.


	7. Hungry Eyes

Morning in camp. Thora awoke alone in the pile of blankets, and she rolled over, burying her face in Alistair's pillow and breathing in his particular scent. Outside the tent, the birds were singing, Leliana and Wynne were chatting by the fire while something bubbled faintly, probably porridge. With an effort, Thora let go of the warmth of the blankets and arose.

She exchanged good morning greetings with the others and went searching for the nearest stream to wash her face. Coming back, she finally found Alistair, practicing his forms alone in a clearing, and she stopped to watch. He was shirtless, and sweat was gleaming in the morning sun across all the sharply defined muscles of his chest and abdomen. He stepped sharply forward, and turned quickly, blocking an invisible opponent with his shield. His broad back was to her now, the thin linen pants he wore flexing with the powerful muscles of his legs.

Thora licked her lips unconsciously, watching the hypnotically graceful display in front of her, Alistair's motions clean and sharp, his eyes narrowed in concentration, his body perfectly coordinated. An ache began between her legs and she couldn't help thinking about going to him and running her hands over the firm skin of his back, licking up the rivulets of sweat with her tongue—

"There you are," Leliana said from behind her. "Hungry?"

"Oh, yes," Thora said without thinking, and then blushed at her own tone.

Leliana giggled. "So I see. He is very ... athletic, isn't he?"

The moment was broken. Thora turned away from the practice field. "Let's get breakfast."  
\----- ----- ----- ----- -----  
The bandits were better armed than usual, the fighting sharp and vicious. Thora found herself facing the bandit leader, a big man with a broadaxe who had clearly not learned his fighting in the mannered and ruled forum of the Provings. He distracted her with a blow of the broadaxe, which she blocked, and then he kicked her hard in the knee.

Thora fell, white-hot pain shooting through her body, and put an arm up to block the blow she was sure was incoming, but it never landed. Instead Alistair's tall figure in silverite stepped between her and the axe, catching the blow on his shield and countering with a mighty blow of his sword.

Wynne caught Thora by the shoulders, pulling her backward out of the way of the fighting. She laid her hands on the injured knee, the warmth of the healing surrounding the joint and taking the pain away. As the pain haze cleared, Thora looked around at the battle. Her team was prevailing, Morrigan and Leliana ganging up on the last bandit. He had looked excited for a moment, seeing two such beautiful women approaching him, but quickly realized what a deadly combination they were, Morrigan's magic and Leliana's blades confusing him and breaking through his defenses before he knew what they were doing.

Alistair was still facing down the bandit leader. He deflected a blow from the broadaxe with his shield and swung his sword while the bandit had his defenses down. The bandit spun away, and Alistair followed him, moving easily in his armor. He cast a quick glance over his shoulder at Thora, a smile flashing across his face when he saw she was being cared for, and then turned back to the combat. The bandit leader turned the broadaxe, aiming a blow with the pommel at Alistair's head. Adroitly Alistair dodged the blow. Thora could almost see the muscles in his long legs flexing as he moved back and forth, surprisingly light on his feet for such a big man.

Clearly the stronger and better trained fighter, Alistair appeared to be enjoying himself as he beat the bandit chief back with massive blows of sword and shield. The broadaxe was moving more slowly now, and at last Alistair landed a mighty blow that dropped the bandit chief like a log. Removing his helm, Alistair ran a hand through his sweat-darkened hair, the light catching his profile and outlining it sharply.

"Usually," Morrigan remarked from where she stood next to Thora, "I find your fondness for that oaf quite inexplicable. However, I must admit that he is most ... picturesque when he fights."

"Picturesque?" Leliana said. "I do not know that I would use quite that word. You cannot touch a picture, after all." She cast a sideways glance at Thora. "Someone's a lucky girl."

"Ladies," Wynne put in sharply, "I believe we all have looting to do, and we should keep moving before the bodies are discovered."

They were all hastily rifling through pockets by the time Alistair moved over toward them. He frowned down at them for a moment as Thora flushed and looked more intently into the knapsack she had in her hands. "What?" he asked. "What did I miss?"  
\----- ----- ----- ----- -----  
They made camp that night near a pretty brook that went rushing merrily by as though there had never been a Blight. The music of the rushing water joined with the sounds of camp, creating a soothing backdrop. Thora didn't love running water, not the way Morrigan did, didn't enjoy immersing herself in it the way Alistair and Leliana did, but she liked to look at it. After Wynne admonished her to stop helping set up camp to protect the injured knee, Thora wandered to the edge of the brook, listening to the ringing of Alistair's axe as he chopped wood to keep the fire going all night.

She moved toward the sound. He had his shirt off, and was surrounded by a pile of firewood, humming a little tune under his breath as the axe rose and fell, the muscles of his back rippling with the movement. His skin was bronzed from the sun and gleaming.

The low throb of desire that had begun this morning sped up. Thora's breasts felt heavy, her legs weak, as she watched Alistair's large body move before her. She made a small sound, a low whimper of lust that traveled across the clearing, and Alistair looked over his shoulder at it.

"Oh, there you are. How are you feeling?"

Thora tried to speak, but nothing came from her suddenly dry mouth. She cleared her throat. "Tent. Now."

Alistair's eyes widened in concern. "That bad?" And then the expression on her face must have conveyed her meaning, because he flushed under his tan, his ears turning red. "What, now? I mean, um ... what will the others think? It's ... it's still daylight!"

"Do I look like I care?" She walked across the clearing toward him and did what she had been thinking of all day; she put her tongue out and licked a rivulet of sweat off his muscular abdomen and was rewarded by a sharp hiss as he drew his breath in. Licking her lips, Thora looked up at him. "Tent, then?"

"Tent. Absolutely."


	8. Night of the Darkspawn

He stood on a hill, looking down across the fields. They were blackened with taint, the trees stunted and twisted and that sickly rotten stench floating up to him. The darkspawn moved across the field, coming toward him, their steps slow and deliberate. The knowledge that they were in no hurry chilled Alistair's heart more than a screaming onrush would have done. They knew he wasn't going anywhere—he was waiting for them, after all, and he knew that once they reached him he would have to join their ranks.

As they came closer, he could begin making out faces he recognized. There was Duncan, his beard clinging patchily to the tainted flesh of his face, the skirt of his armor dragging on the ground. Behind him was Mother Petrona, her eyes glassy and clouded, her mouth open and blackened. The words that came from her mouth were gibberish, but he could almost make out their meaning. He didn't want to know what she was saying, but he couldn't move. Soon she would reach him and he would hear her and once he understood, it would all be over. Desperately, he tried to move his feet, but they were stuck to the ground, sinking slowly into the mushy black gunk.

Arlessa Isolde was in the front, her blonde hair straggling over her shoulders in taint-streaked clumps. Her hands were out, reaching for him, and Alistair felt the dread of her that he had always felt, increased almost beyond endurance by the skeletal claws her well-tended hands had become.

He didn't want to open his mouth; it seemed the very air was tainted, and the darkness of it would rush inside him if he opened his mouth to speak. But he couldn't help himself; the urge to cry out for help was too strong. He took a deep breath, prepared to shout the word. What came out instead was one of their sounds. The taint was coming from inside his body. He had a sickening sensation that he knew what he was saying, that he was communicating with the creatures coming toward him, and that they were calling his name. "Alistair! Alistair!"

"Alistair?"

He came awake abruptly, sitting bolt upright. His heart was pounding in his ears, drowning out all other sounds. He was covered in sweat and panting as though he had run a tremendous distance. It was a familiar feeling; he couldn't count the number of times he'd awakened this way since his Joining.

But something was new. Never before had he wakened from a nightmare to the feeling of strong small hands on his shoulders; a firm little body climbing onto his lap and pressing against his heaving chest; soft lips laying sweet kisses along his face. His arms went around Thora in surprise and relief and gratitude, letting her presence, her quiet murmurs, anchor him in the real world.

"It's inside me. The taint. I can't get it out."

"I know."

"And they're talking to me ... everyone, they're ... tainted, and they're coming for me." He looked at her in the dim light of the tent. "What if one night I can understand them? What then?"

"You won't." Her voice was sure, and he took comfort in her stated certainty. 

"If I did ... If something went wrong and I turned ... would you?" He couldn't put it any more plainly than that, the horror he felt at the idea of turning into one of them, of losing everything that made him Alistair and becoming something else.

She didn't hesitate, not for a moment. "I would. Just as you would for me."

Alistair nodded against her bare shoulder. His heartrate had slowed and the sweat had dried, leaving him shivering.

Thora touched the side of his face with one gentle hand. "Let's get you back under the blankets."

He went willingly as she tugged him back down into the bedroll. Her body curled into his, the weight warm and comforting against him. She was asleep again in no time, but Alistair lay awake, marveling at the peace he felt. He had imagined what it would be like to be her lover many times, but it had never occurred to him that this reassurance, this feeling of being loved and cared for, would be part of it. He'd never had it before ... but he thought it was something he could get quite used to.

Alistair pulled her closer against him, resting his cheek against her hair. He didn't sleep again that night—he didn't need to. He had all he needed to dream of there in his arms.


	9. Regards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by "If You See Him/If You See Her," by Reba McEntire and Brooks and Dunn.

“Come on, nug-licker, try some. Brought it special for ya, all the way from the Vigil.”

Alistair groaned. Trying one of Oghren’s concoctions was always a risk—and more often than not seemed to end in humiliation. Not for Oghren, to be sure, but for Alistair, almost certainly.

“One sip. If you don’t like it, we can use it to polish the floor.”

“I have servants for that.”

“Don’t get all high and mighty with me, boy.”

Sighing, Alistair picked up the mug and took a tentative sip, and then a larger, appreciative swallow. “That’s good stuff.” It didn’t burn nearly as much as most of Oghren’s brews did.

“Yup. Got an Antivan ship captain to bring me some o’ them oranges, used ‘em in it.” 

“I thought so. It tastes—exotic.”

“Then have another.” Oghren didn’t wait for a response, just started refilling the mug.

Alistair considered protesting, but it was no use. And he didn’t really want to. It was such a relief when he got to spend time with one of their old companions from the Blight, people who knew him when he was just Alistair, not this royal person everyone kept expecting him to be. It had been six years and he still wasn’t used to the deference people treated him with, or the great distance there seemed to be between himself and even his closest advisors. Were kings not supposed to have friends? Another man might have had a wife as helpmeet and support, but the distance between himself and Dorothea grew larger every day, it seemed. The Grey Wardens, and Oghren in particular, were among the few people with whom Alistair felt like himself.

“Copper for what yer thinkin’,” Oghren said, draining his own mug and refilling it.

Desperately, Alistair sought for a topic of conversation other than the one that was constantly on his mind. But he couldn’t avoid it—too many of his thoughts were devoted in that direction to dissemble too much in front of this man who was friend to them both. “How is Anawyn?” he asked, putting the little girl up as a shield against what he really wanted to know.

“Doin’ good. Little cave tick’s as smart as a whip. Has the whole Vigil dancin’ to her tune.”

“How does she get along with your two?”

“Oh, they’re best of friends. Little bit of an age difference, but she’s patient as all get out.”

“And … Thora?” Alistair held his breath.

“Ah.” Oghren’s knowing look said he’d been waiting for that one. “Same as ever.”

“Tell her—tell her hello for me.” Not that she really needed a message from him. There had been such a coolness between them ever since Duncan was born. It was a sad irony, really—the son that he and Dorothea and the kingdom had always wanted, that he and Thora had parted so he could create, had ruined his relationship with both women. It was well worth it; Duncan was the delight of Alistair’s life. But he missed them, Dorothea’s quiet presence and Thora’s warm friendship. He missed more than that, truly, he wanted Thora in every way possible, but that was past.

“You all right?” Oghren asked.

Alistair shrugged. “It’s hard to tell, really. I—I miss her.”

Oghren nodded, looking kind, and refilled Alistair’s mug again.

“You won’t tell her I said that, will you?” Alistair asked. The last thing he needed was Thora thinking he was mooning over her like a calf.

The dwarf just grunted, and they both drank deeply.  
\----- ----- ----- -----  
“If you would only sit down, we could have ourselves a nice visit.”

Thora glanced at Leliana, smiling. “I’m sorry. Busy, you know.”

“Yes, I do. You are always so busy—I have to wonder if you ever sleep.”

“Occasionally.”

“And fun? Do you recall what that is?”

“If I forget, Anawyn usually finds a way to remind me.”

“She is quite the handful. I imagine she must be much like you were as a child, no?” Leliana laughed, and Thora chuckled with her.

“According to my older brother, I was a terror. My father thought I could do no wrong—so I imagine I took advantage of that quite as often as Anawyn does her own status.” She thought briefly of her father, who had been a kind, loving man and had doted on his only daughter. He had deserved a better end than he’d had.

“I did not mean to make you sad.”

“No, it’s all right. It was a long while ago, after all, and look where it’s landed me.” She gestured around her, meaning the Vigil, and her duties as Warden Commander, and her daughter, and the friends she’d made. Never mind the beacon that always glowed in her mind somewhere in the vicinity of Denerim—that was also long past, and that was where it would stay.

“Indeed.” Leliana watched her with knowing eyes—how knowing, she proved with her next comment. “You know, I am going to Denerim next with my report on the state of things at Haven. Is there … any message I can carry for you?”

Thora raised her eyebrows at her friend, giving her a severe look. “You can say I’m fine. We’re all fine.”

“’Fine’. What a descriptive word.”

Shaking her head, Thora deposited her papers on her desk. She glanced out the window, which happened to face in the direction of Denerim, and a stab of longing for Alistair hit her so sharply she caught her breath. “Maybe—maybe you could say that I—I think about him sometimes. No,” she contradicted immediately. “That wouldn’t be wise.”

“What the heart desires is not always the wisest course, but sometimes we must listen to it anyway,” Leliana said wistfully, and Thora could see in her face that she was thinking of Ser Perth. They were off again now, due to their long-standing disagreement over the Chantry and the Maker.

“I try very hard to keep my heart quiet. Because if I don’t …” Thora sat down, trying to force words past the sudden lump in her throat. “If I listen to it then I have to question why we ever ended up this way; why it couldn’t have been good enough just to be Grey Wardens together, raise our daughter as a family. But that’s foolish, because I know why we did it—it was for the greater good. And the kingdom has benefited.”

“But you still want him,” Leliana said softly. “And duty is not enough to erase that longing from your heart, no matter how sternly you tell it to be silent.”

“Yes.” Thora pressed her lips together to prevent all the loneliness she kept hidden from spilling forth.  
\----- ----- ----- -----  
“’Nother one, Yer Majesty?” 

Alistair nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He hoped he would learn his lesson about Oghren’s brews after this—smoothness didn’t mean it was less deadly. But then, he’d been drinking with Oghren for the better part of a decade now, and he hadn’t learned that lesson yet; he suspected he was beyond hope.

“D’you remember the camp?” he asked.

Oghren grunted his assent.

“Bloody cold, more often than not. Still … warm in the tents, though,” he said slowly, his chin resting on his folded arms. “I miss it, sometimes. Even the warmest bed is cold alone.” That sounded profound to him, and he repeated it softly to himself. “Maker, I miss her. I’d give half the kingdom for one kiss.” He felt the sting of some very manly tears, and blinked them back. Definitely too much of Oghren’s new brew. “Sometimes I find it hard to remember all the very good reasons why—“

“You’ve gotta let it go, boy,” Oghren said, not without sympathy. “Broodin’ about it ain’t gonna make it any different.”

“I know. But … I can’t let it go. It would be like—like cutting the heart right out of my body. How can I do that?”

“Really big knife?”

Alistair looked at him. From his distracted expression, it was clear Oghren was studying on the logistics of the problem. “You’re not helping.”

“Nothin’ to help. Lovin’ someone you can’t have? People been doin’ it since the Stone was formed, and they’re not gonna stop. Doesn’t make your problem go away … but then, that’s what the ale’s for. Have another’n?” He picked up Alistair’s mug and wiggled it.

Alistair nodded. “You’re a very wise man, Oghren.”

The dwarf grunted again. “Don’t let it get around.”  
\----- ----- ----- -----  
The two women were silent, staring at the flames crackling in the fire. At last, Leliana leaned forward, placing her teacup on the low table in front of her. She tucked her feet under herself, turning in the chair to face Thora. “Have you thought of trying to find happiness with someone new? It saddens me to see you here like this.”

Thora shook her head. “I’m fine, Leliana. Really.”

“You are not fine. You have a hole in your heart where Alistair should be, and you pretend it doesn’t exist. That is not healthy.”

“I’m a Grey Warden. Nothing about my life is healthy.”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“All right, say I do. Say that my secret heart is shrouded in darkness as deep as that in the Deep Roads, and Alistair is the light that has been taken from it. How does it help me, or him, or some other poor bastard, if I try to illuminate that blackness with someone else?” Thora shook her head. “It’s just not possible, and it wouldn’t be fair.”

“Is that what you say to Anders?”

“Not in those words—you’re the only one I wax poetic around.” She smiled at her friend. “But something along those lines.”

“I am glad you have someone else to talk to about these things.”

“I would be glad not to have to talk about them at all. Seeing him, with things strained and cold this way, is hard enough. If I can work hard enough, I can forget. Work was always meant to be my purpose, anyway.”

Leliana watched her with affection. “You are meant for so much more than that.”

“Thank you. I’m glad you think so. But as you well know, I had more once. I have the memories of that time—and I have his daughter. It’s enough.”

“So there is no message I can take for you?”

“No. Just … tell him … tell him I send my—“

“Regards?” Leliana suggested, when the words wouldn’t come.

Thora nodded. It was the right word, but completely inadequate to convey everything she felt.


End file.
